Heart Eater
by Libellule
Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what’s his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed. wincest, Sam/Dean Ch3 quote: Sam buries his face in his shoulder, presses hot tears into his shirt. 'God, I love you,' Sam thinks
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Warnings: hurt!Dean, powers!Sam, lots o'blood, and a touch of wincest.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "All Hell Breaks Loose" parts 1 and 2.

Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what's his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed.

Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R for Wincest, language, horrific imagery

Beta'd by the most wonderful fortitudeisme, who is lovely to work with. Thank you very much, my dear.

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_Heart Eater _

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

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Chapter One

It's on a dusty, overgrown road, when Dean is taken. He's filling the Impala with gas and Sam is inside the station paying, probably asking for directions, even though_ they aren't lost,_ just because they're traveling on the loneliest godforsaken road in Texas, so lonely that the gas station attendant looked surprised when they pulled into the lot.

The air is dry and brittle, crackling as Dean stands there in the sun, thoughts wandering lazily, sluggish from the heat. Sensing something out there toying with the dirt, he has no idea that it's something he can't handle until it's already too late.

The wind in his ear and a pinprick along the back of his neck and the world suddenly tilts and goes black before he feels the smack of the earth.

Sam knows something's wrong when the gas continues to fill past thirty gallons on the cash register screen. The welcome bell jingles indifferently as Sam swings the door of the station open to see gasoline spilling all over the cracked asphalt. At first Sam thinks it's a trick of the heat, a mirage spreading liquid across the ground, but as he treads closer to the Impala the chemical smell of gas, and a tendril of the clear fuel meet his boots.

The driver's side door is ajar, and the keys are dangling in the ignition. His brother is nowhere in sight. Worry washes over him slowly but surely like the gas covering the pavement. The attendant's yelling at the mess, but Sam's not paying one bit of attention. Circling the car, he knows before his eyes confirm it.

Dean is gone— simply not there anymore— _vanished_ like god damned Houdini.

Panic boils at his edges, just below the surface. Looking down the road, Sam sees nothing but short yellow grass on either side of the fractured blacktop. Dean would not leave him, especially not now. Sam knows this for sure. Still, his heart flutters, a hummingbird caged in his chest, at the abrupt absence of his brother.

It's too early for Dean to have been seized by the demon. _There's still time,_ Sam thinks. _His day isn't due yet,_ and he doesn't allow himself to dwell for more than a fleeting instant on the deal Dean made.

He sits behind the wheel of the Impala for a moment before turning the ignition and taking a right out of the parking lot. For no reason, he's compelled westward, like the needle on a broken compass, drawn towards his missing other half. And so he follows the pull.

o0o00O00o0o

Eyes opening wide, Dean comes to all of a sudden, drawing in an audible breath. His head feels thick, still laden with sleep. It's dark, and miserably hot in the shade. Dean blinks, his focus sliding into place. Warm shafts of light escape through the slatted walls around him, striping his limbs with bands of sunlight. The stagnant scent of parched wood and untilled dirt fills his nostrils. The skin on his back burns, protesting abuse that Dean can't quite recall.

It takes a full moment of going over these sensory perceptions for his brain to catch up. _A barn?_ Dean surmises. _Where are we?_ And he struggles to remember, _Texas. Just passing through._ He can't remember anything beyond that, like what case they're currently working, or how he got to be lying flat on the ground in an old, dilapidated cowshed.

"Sam?" he asks, parched voice cracking on the single syllable.

Sluggishly, Dean registers that he can't move. Stretched out on his back, his arms are bound over his head by something he can't see or feel. There are short walls all around him, but the ceiling is high overhead and Dean realizes he's being held inside some sort of animal stall. Thin slits of sunlight continue to beam quietly through the gaps between the boards, blindingly brilliant in some places, and the whole building groans, held up by sheer fortitude.

_Sammy, _he thinks, turning as much as his fetters will allow. Simultaneous relief and panic fills him when he discovers Sam's not with him. Testing his bonds, he pulls and strains, trying to break free. After several minutes of fruitless struggling, realization comes— he'll have to wait for Sam to find him, wherever he is. _Sam's safe,_ he tells himself, _he has to be,_ hoping that his brother is just outside with the Impala, a smirk and an explanation on his lips, and not lying unconscious in the adjacent enclosure.

Taking inventory, Dean constructs that he's not hurt, not really. Whatever brought him to this place dragged him the whole way, he realizes, accounting for the tenderness on his back. He rolls his shoulders, trying to obtain relief.

Needing to always be in constant movement, when Dean finds himself unable to take action it agitates him. He tugs restlessly on the restraints again, and his thoughts begin to roam given that his body cannot.

Memory is a tricky thing— while he lies there, he remembers snapshots— endlessly rolling fields of straw-colored grass— the Impala doing her best against the heat— Sam's scathing looks and moody sighing— _Damn near everything irritates him these days, whiney little bitch._ Since making the deal with the crossroads demon, Dean could do no right by his brother. Everything he says and does is now framed by the deal and the impending certainty of everlasting hellfire. Dean doesn't want to talk about it, and so Sam finds tormented meaning in any word, whether voiced aloud or not, that Dean grants him.

Living in the now, Dean only sees the present moment, can only stand to process what's happening right in front of him. But Sam's eyes are far-reaching. They travel down many different paths at once, and foresee any number of futures in an instant. This kind of scope is crushing as Sam holds everything Dean does as if for the last time, as if a goodbye— and he can't stand it, can't stand the weight of it. Sensing subtle changes in his brother— anger, helplessness, frustration, sorrow— mood shifts so slight, Dean wonders if maybe he's the one losing it. Deep down, though, Dean knows it's his brother who is coming undone.

He's not sorry, and he never will be. Not even when the Hellhounds come baying at his door will he regret selling his soul for Sam. He gets now why his father made the deal he did little over a year ago. _Like father, like son._ It was a selfish decision born of love and soul-rending grief.

Something moves in the darkness, swirling up from dust. Dean squints, trying to discern what's happening. A figure undulates in the shadows, taking slow and rhythmic steps, a deliberate, practiced movement. A thin shaft of light illuminates its face— a woman, curved and supple, long hair cascading down around her shoulders. She is adorned with many bracelets and a necklace of wide, gold-plated slabs beset with turquoise that clatter gently as she moves. But something is not quite right with her. Skin graying and peeling, and eyes sharp as steel, she stands before him with a timeworn presence unbefitting her youthful steps.

_Definitely not human,_ Dean thinks.

"You are awake," she says, coming to a stop at his feet. Dean looks up at her, into the eyes of a predator, and he knows he's in big trouble. "That's too bad for you," she says.

"Listen sister, not that I don't appreciate the whole bondage thing, but this is kinky even for me." He smiles impishly, as if it's all a big joke and he's not really, _really_ uneasy about the whole situation.

Her lips tug up at the corners, an amused smirk, but she doesn't reply.

"You might as well let me go because whatever you want from me 'ain't happening," he says, still going for amiable but commanding.

Her smirk only grows wider. "You are not what I want," she says, letting her words hang for a moment. "I want him," and her eyes are so chilling, so _knowing_, that there's no question who she means— _Sammy_— or of her sinister intentions for him. Then she smiles, and it's the scariest thing he's seen in a while.

"There's no way I'm helping you, bitch," Dean asserts. "You won't lay one finger on Sam."

"Such a mouth on you," she says. "But not for long. Before this day is out, you will dare not cast your eyes upon me, let alone speak in my presence." She crouches down beside him, looking up and down the length of his body. "What's left of you, anyway," she amends.

Defiant, angry, and scared, Dean struggles again, knowing that no amount of fighting will free him from his phantom restraints. She strokes the back of her fingers along his cheek, down his throat and across his chest, admiring his lovely form, appraising him as if he is a prize thoroughbred. Her touch sickens him, but all he can do is brace himself against her hold.

"I was much stronger once," she says. "Able to crush men with a single glance." She looks at him, searching for the fear her eyes should inspire, but Dean sets his jaw and stares obstinately back at her.

"Those days are gone now," she admits with a soft sigh, "but I have just enough strength left for this." Shifting her legs, she straddles him, a solid weight on his chest.

In another circumstance, with his arms tied and a woman astride him, he might find the occurrence highly arousing to say the least, but this instance turns his stomach. It's a violation that will only get worse. Dean feels her nails through his shirt as she drags her fingers along his chest. Her sharp fingertips are stained black as if dipped into pools of ink. Dean knows it's not ink that paints her nails black, but a much more vital fluid that has decayed to an ebony lacquer.

"I've waited _centuries_, knowing one day the right time would come," she says. "But, oh, how like a God your brother is— I felt his power from far away. Like a beacon, it called to me. He's not even aware of the power he bears, is he?"

Curling on top of him at the thought of the power Sam will bring her, she slides back, seating herself atop his hips and pressing her thighs around his waist. "He will restore me to my former glory, and I shall reclaim my kingdom."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean distracts himself by trying to figure out what the hell she is. _Not a demon, or a succubus, something worse— an ancient power—_ He feels her hands stretch broad across his stomach and then smooth up over his torso.

"This how you get your kicks, sweetheart?" Dean growls, angry at his helplessness.

Her face is lined with stripes of light and her eyes glint with smoldering indignation. "You will be silent in my presence," she commands, a thinly veiled warning in her words.

"Don't bet on it, sister," he says. "Sam'll hear my warnings a mile away."

Her eyes light up approvingly and she says, "That is what I am counting on."

A thrill of terror straightens Dean's spine, and he pushes back against the ground desperately, praying it will swallow him up and spare both him and Sam from whatever this creature has in store.

"You are his weakness," she says, leaning low, folding her hands over Dean's heart and resting her chin on top. "He will come for you, and I shall be waiting."

She pushes herself up over him, breasts pressing against his chest, her body flush with his, mouth hovering close above his lips. "Scream for me now," she says.

Dean knows if he does, if he makes even the slightest sound, Sam is lost. Steeling himself, mouth pressed to a tight line, Dean glares at her insolently.

"What's the matter, my dear? Now you don't want to play?" She sits up, pleasure on her face as her right hand draws circles over his chest. Suddenly, she seems more feral than human-like. Setting her fingers along his ribcage, counting the bones playfully, she claws him. Her nails surpass the trivial layer of shirt and find the warm flesh beneath, digging in deep.

Clenching his jaw, Dean bites down on his tongue to keep from moaning. A slew of curse words rise up in him, but the thought of Sam under her hands keeps him silent.

Slowly, she picks him open, working his blood between her fingers.

"You will speak," she says. "They always used to and so will you now."

Talons dig further, twisting between his rib bones. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, taking short pain-filled breaths. She burrows her fingers deeper still, and Dean feels his own blood flowing down his skin, but he will not give her satisfaction.

"You will regret your silence," she says. She leans lower, lips nearly touching his. Her fingers press into his side and Dean hears the sickening sound of one of his own ribs snapping in half.

Pain transcends all of his other senses; he can't help it and cries out. Rushing down, she kisses him, her jaw working his mouth open. Then she pushes, digging inside Dean's chest once again, and crushes another rib. Dean screams into her mouth.

There's a dizzying surge of warmth, and then she pulls away from him, the blood on her lips forming a grisly smile. "If you do not bleed to death," she says her voice suddenly lower and deeper, "then I will come back for your heart."

Her changed voice cuts straight through his haze of pain, and Dean gapes at her.

She laughs and sickness roils up inside him because it's _his_ laugh coming from her mouth.

"After I take your brother's heart, of course," she says in his voice.

Dean tries to yell at her, but she has completely stolen his voice, and with it she will steal Sam's heart.

o0o00O00o0o

The dirt pops and hisses under the Impala's tires, the road stretching along the earth, a weathered scar across its surface. The trail is easy to pick up, as if it is a timeworn path that Sam followed his whole life (in a way, it is). Sam knows it's a trap as he pulls the Impala to a stop in front of a dilapidated farm. But it's not like he's _not_ going to go in.

If Sam really stops to think about it, he realizes he's _furious_ with Dean. _How could he do it?_ Sam fumes as he exits the Impala, slamming the car door. _After everything with Dad and he just— just—_ Rage prickles at his flesh, his vision starts to shimmer, and Sam forcibly smoothes it back with a deep breath. He's fed up with Dean, and pissed off, and frustrated, and so damn worried about him that he can't think straight. _God, where is he? This is— this might be all the time I have with him. If anything's happened to him, I'll just— just—_

A profound feeling of foreboding settles thickly around him like a sandstorm blanketing the desert. Whatever has happened to his brother, Sam knows it's nothing good.

Surveying the barn before him, he understands he is meant to enter. Sitting there holding it's breath, the old structure is just barely hanging on, with it's shriveled and splintered beams warping into a lazy lean. If Sam has even the slightest doubt that Dean is in there, it is quashed when he sees Dean's amulet glittering in the dusty dirt road. He picks it up and brushes the grit off gently before folding it into his pocket.

He doesn't know what could have taken his brother so quickly and quietly and he thinks that maybe he should be more worried about that than he is. Right now the only thing that is important to Sam is getting his brother back. Any minute apart in this final year of brotherhood is a wasted minute.

The barn door yawns open as Sam approaches, inviting him into the darkened interior. It pushes open the rest of the way with little effort, swinging with a loud groan upon rusty hinges. The gaping door cuts a sharp path of light across the dirt floor, Sam's form carving out an elongated shadow as he looms at the entrance. Thick and smelling of stale wood and earth, the heat stagnates inside the barn. Sam's features pinch as the unpleasant aroma hits him.

The dirt crackles under his boots, and his sun-bright eyes are eclipsed by the darkness as he enters_. Dean would be furious_, he muses, _walking into a trap so ill prepared._ But there's a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and a flask of holy water a solid weight in his jacket pocket, and Sam hopes it will be enough.

Walking slowly, one hand dragging along the wall, Sam waits for his eyes to adjust. Corroded machine parts decay just off the path, and he stumbles over them, his arms pin-wheeling for balance. He doesn't quite fall over, managing to right himself, but any chance at stealth is now lost and so Sam calls out for his brother.

"Dean?" Sam asks cautiously. Time ticks away, seconds squandered like salt spilled in the sea. _This is ridiculous_, Sam thinks impatiently. He should just stride in there, find his brother, kill whatever's taken him, and haul Dean's ass back to the Impala for a proper kicking. But a lifetime of hunting means he knows that it will not be so simple.

There is a faint groaning from somewhere— Sam listens and waits. When the sound is not repeated Sam ventures further into the barn, scanning for signs of movement. There are several animal stalls on the left and a ladder leading up to the hayloft on the right. Moving towards the stalls, Sam reaches for the rough wooden door. It doesn't budge, even though Sam cannot see a lock holding it shut.

It's a horrible, throaty gasp that causes Sam to spin around, heart tightening in his chest.

"Sammy?" Broken and pain-filled, there's no denying that voice.

Sam looks around frantically, sees no sign of his brother. "Where are you?" Sam asks, eyes blind-frantic. Head tilted, he listens carefully, and hears only ragged breathing, choking—

"Dean!" Sam shouts, striding across the empty barn, turning circles around himself, as if Dean would materialize in front of him if he added, _There's no place like home_, to the action.

"M'here," Dean says, swallowing thickly. There's blood in his voice, Sam realizes with alarm.

"Where?" Sam asks, listening again, trying to gauge direction. "I can't tell where your voice is coming from." Dean is maddeningly silent. "Talk to me," Sam directs. He moves back towards the stalls where he first heard his brother.

"Don't know wha'happin' Sammy," Dean slurs. Walking slowly, Sam tries to follow as best he can, but Dean sounds faint.

"Are you hurt?" Sam prods, knowing the answer already. "Tell me what you remember," he says, using Dean's voice as a compass.

"_Hurry, Sam," _Dean whispers. "…'fore it comes back."

"Dean, _concentrate. _Where are you?" Sam asks again, frustrated.

"_Up—," _Dean replies, "in the loft."

o0o00O00o0o

It is his own voice that rouses him. He hears the pathetic way she uses it to call his brother's name, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Sam's voice replies.

His voice will lead his brother right to her— Sam won't know it's a trap until it's too late. Dean struggles against his bonds, his throat working to produce a sound that will never come. He did not trade his soul so that Sam could be food for some crazy goddess-wannabe. _Stupid bitch._

Fighting the tether that holds him is a huge mistake. The wound in his chest bleeds. He feels sick as warm wetness flows from the gouge over his broken ribs. Dizziness overtakes him and he tastes blood. Sam's voice swims in his skull, the worried tone and urgency carving out a hollow in his heart. _No, Sammy, don't listen._

He fights harder than he ever has before, struggling to stay awake, but there's only so much will power can do over a failing body. Hot air presses upon him, suffocating in its thickness.

_I'm sorry, Sam,_ he thinks as he loses consciousness. _So sorry._

_To be continued…_

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Author's note: I originally conceived this idea over a year ago after the Season 2 finale and have held onto it ever since. Even though it's been Kripke'd, I loved the concept and vowed to see it through. I hope you guys like it— please let me know!

I want to remind one more time that this _is_ a Wincest story. Up to this point I have only written gen fic, and so I don't want folks to be surprised as the chapters progress. It's mild, but it's there.

This story is complete (only three chapters) and I will post once a week. Oh, and if you haven't checked out my LJ you are missing out on story art— I've done illustrations for each chapter. Thanks for reading. See you next chapter! :)

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Warnings: hurt!Dean, powers!Sam, lots o'blood, and a touch of wincest.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "All Hell Breaks Loose" parts 1 and 2.

Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what's his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed.

Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R for Wincest, language, horrific imagery

Beta'd by the most wonderful fortitudeisme, who is lovely to work with. Thank you very much, my dear.

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_Heart Eater _

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

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Chapter Two

The rungs of the ladder crumble beneath Sam's grip as he heaves himself into the hayloft. He looks away as he climbs, avoiding an eyeful of splinters. When he reaches the top, he sees remnants of straw bundles scattered across the wooden planks, and more inky darkness.

He does not see Dean.

Winchester instinct keeps his suspicions sharp. Sam doesn't know what he's dealing with yet, what type of creature has Dean and has hurt him. Uneasiness coils tightly in his stomach as he thinks this. Reflecting back on the times when Dean has gone missing— _Skinwalker, Djinn—_ Sam realizes it pales to insignificance next to his own MIA history, and that it might not even _be_ Dean up here.

Sam pushes himself onto the loft floor, folding his long legs under him, and kneels by the edge. The barn was clearly built before any sort of safety laws went into effect, as there is nothing between the lip of the platform and a twenty-foot drop to the ground below. Ever aware of his stature, Sam makes as small a target of himself as he can, crouching on the balls of his feet as he scans the hayloft for his brother.

There is darkness where there shouldn't be. The far end of the platform is shrouded in black shadow even with sunlight peeking through the crevices in the roof.

Just when Sam starts to doubt that Dean is up here at all, Dean's voice cuts through him, jarring and terrible. "Sammy?" he breathes from the darkness, fear and pain shaking his voice.

Swallowing back his reply, Sam fights his instinct to rush to his brother's side, his want to protect him, to stop his pain—. Sam knows something is lurking in the darkened corner, something that might not be his brother. _It's probably a trap,_ he tells himself.

"Please," Dean whispers, and it damn near breaks him. _"Sammy,"_ he pleads. His breath rattles in his chest, a pathetic rasp.

A knot of fright tightens in his stomach as Sam realizes he's listening to Dean choke.

"_Dean,"_ Sam shouts despite himself. Unable to withstand the sound of his brother's suffering, Sam is compelled forward regardless of what his intellect tells him.

There's no warning save for a gentle sweep of air, and it's the practiced skill of quick reflexes that saves him. A creature hurls out of the darkness, claws bared. Sam manages to catch its wrists just before the long nails reach his chest. He flips it, but the creature lands squarely, ready to rebound.

It's a woman— or it used to be. Her body curves in all the right places, but her skin is gray and withered as if a corpse come to life. The turquoise and gold necklace she wears catches the light coming through the roof and it reminds Sam of ancient treasures from a kingdom in the sun— _Aztec gold._ She holds his gaze like a woman used to adoration. Her eyes are dark, hungry, a wildcat one catch away from death.

Moving slowly, palms forward in a placating gesture, Sam straightens, drawing on his height advantage. Sam's downright _weary,_ and though he knows chances of justifying his way out are slim, he tries reasoning with her first. "I don't want any trouble," Sam explains. "I came here for my brother."

She relaxes a little, smiling big and wide, remarkably like Dean, and she laughs— it's a man's laugh— _It's Dean's laugh._

Though the light is dim, Sam's certain the creature sees the color drain from his face.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," she says, mocking him through his brother's voice. "You almost fell for it too." She cocks her head to the side thoughtfully and asks, "What gave me away?" Altering her entire manner, she unwinds into a casual stance as if Sam poses no threat to her at all.

And so far, he doesn't— not really. What she is exactly remains a mystery, and therefore how to kill her does as well. Squaring himself, Sam faces her. "I'll only ask you this one more time," Sam says, features pinched into a scowl. "Where is my brother?"

"I would be more concerned about yourself, little brother," she replies, Dean's _you're-one-unlucky-sonuvabitch_ laugh bursting through her mouth.

Sam's jaw sets and his eyes narrow to a smoldering squint. He can plainly see it's not Dean speaking to him, yet it still rankles him, gets deep under his skin, to hear his brother's voice saying these things. Though it comes as no surprise, Sam never realized how attuned he is to Dean's gravelly baritone.

Raising her chin, she fixes Sam with an appraising look. "You think I'm a good mimic," she says, her smile broadening because she knows she's right. "But that's not it, baby." She steps forward, her bare feet padding softly across the old floorboards. "Ask me."

"Why do you sound like him?" Sam asks. Though his eyes turn an icy blue, he's afraid of the answer.

"You're not gonna like it, Sammy," she drawls, twisting Dean's voice.

But Sam's not playing her game. "What did you do to Dean?" he presses. A less ambitious creature would cower at his ferocity, but she stands with a causal, almost bored demeanor as if Sam were a toddler whose tantrum was no longer amusing.

"I took what I needed from your brother," she says cryptically.

"You stole his voice," Sam reasons, trying not to let horror show on his face. He has no idea what kind of creature can actually take someone's power to speak. He's in big trouble, he realizes, and Dean is in it even worse.

"But," the creature amends, "he's not really what I have my heart set on." She comes closer, moving within arms reach.

Sam ignores the arrogant swagger of her stride, ignores his own want to hurt her. The shadows are swimming, undulating in the oppressively hot loft, and Sam's willing to bet that Dean is not hidden within them. _Where is he then? _Sam wonders, eyes darting quickly to the edge of the platform. Beads of sweat form across his brow, trickle down, and burn his eyes.

"And what is it that you want?" Sam asks, though he's pretty sure he knows what her reply will be.

"You," she answers. With a ferocious cry, she speeds towards him.

Sam's not even sure _what_ she is, so he sure as hell doesn't know how to kill her. But unless he convinces her to make a trip out to the Impala, his choices are limited. He dives away, pulling for his gun, cocking and aiming the piece at her.

She pauses a beat, annoyed. "That's not going to work on me, Sam. No weapon of mortal making can harm me."

He fires anyway, the bullet passing clean through her chest. Her simper tightens to a scowl. The darkness in the loft suddenly blackens around them and she disappears into it. Before Sam can think about what that means, Dean says, "Come on, Sammy. You can't win."

_No, not Dean_, Sam reminds himself. _It's her._

Quickly, Sam reaches for the flask of holy water tucked away in his pocket. A lot of demons fought their way out of Hell, and though Sam's never heard of a demon that can literally steal _just_ your voice, there's no telling what sort of monsters they let out of the Devil's Gate.

It's Dean's voice with an edge of accusation to it that stops him cold. "Well, you're too little too late to save me, brother."

Sam stills, suppressing a shudder. "What—."

It's the pause she wanted— she leaps at him, swiping with her clawed hands. Sam avoids her, throwing a punch of his own. The holy water sloshes over the side of the container, uselessly dousing both Sam and the creature. She's too fast, and uses the missed jab to her advantage, grabbing his arm, heaving him down. Losing his balance, Sam falls to the floor, but rolls with it away from her clutches.

Suddenly Sam feels restricted, like he can't move his arms and legs. She's standing over him, staring down at him intently. Fighting against the invisible hold, Sam feels the tethers stretch and strain, hairs on a rope unthreading one at a time before finally breaking upon his exertion.

Her darkness wavers, the loft filled momentarily with warm sunlight sifting through the rifts in the roof.

_It cost her a lot to do that,_ Sam realizes. _She's stalling because she needs a rest._ Sam thinks that maybe she's not as powerful as he first thought. _She used it up trapping Dean. Now she's left with brute strength and parlor tricks. _

Coming to his feet, Sam catches her eye, seeing a trace of fright dance in them. "Not as powerful as you boast, old woman," he remarks. Sam takes a step forward and she inches back. "You still haven't told me where he is."

But any panic Sam sees in her vanishes quickly, and is replaced by a fearsome ire. "_This_," she sneers, gesturing to her throat, "is all that's left of your beloved brother." She steps forward, menacing in her intensity. "I took his heart!" she screams, contorting Dean's voice with rage. "He's _dead_," she hisses.

Sam is shaking his head before she gets the words out. It's not the truth. It can't be. "Liar," Sam whispers, disbelieving. So intimate with his brother is he, that Sam believes he will suffer the very instant of his death with him.

"Sammy, please," she says, teasing him with Dean's voice. The corners of her mouth upturn revealing a line of ferocious teeth. "He was exquisite, wasn't he? If you had had him beneath your hands, between your lips, I'm sure you would agree."

"You shut your mouth," Sam growls. Her words are debasing, a degradation to Dean, and Sam can't bear it.

A smile unfurls across her face, his anguish amusing her. "Now I will have your heart, too," she says.

"You wouldn't need my heart if you had his," Sam contends.

Nothing more than a smudge against the dark, she launches herself at him. Sam goes down hard, breath knocked clean out of him. Dust billows up in a gray cloud as he hits the floor. A clawed hand flies at him, and Sam uses both of his hands to keep her talons from digging into his chest. This close he sees that her hands are stained red, covered in blood.

_It's Dean's blood,_ Sam thinks, horrified. Fear and anger simmer just below the surface.

Her necklace jingles against his chest as she presses closer. Pieces fall into place— _Aztec gold— reaper of human hearts— Texas, straddling the Mexican border—_

Sam knows what she is, or what she used to be— _a God, an ancient Aztec Goddess._ But why she thinks his heart will empower her, he doesn't know. Perhaps any sacrifice will do. But that can't be it, if she's already claimed Dean as she alleges.

Deep down, Sam knows why she wants him, but he pushes that fear away.

Desperation increases her strength and she overpowers Sam, sinking her talons into his chest. He groans in pain as she pushes, trying to breach flesh and bone.

With a grunt of effort, Sam bucks her off of him. She lands with an outraged cry on the floor a few feet away. Breathing hard, Sam presses a hand to his chest, checking the severity of the damage. He's bleeding a bit, but he's suffered worse.

_Dean, where are you?_ Sam wonders again, beginning to think that maybe the creature isn't lying to him. Sam knew it was risky to enter into the situation right from the beginning, but what choice was there?

"It's over," she says, rising up from the floor. "Dean is all alone now— you know how that terrifies him. But you can join him," she cajoles. "You can be together. Stop fighting." Wrapping the darkness around her like a cloak, she masks herself and says, "C'mon, Sam. We can be together. No more pain, no more suffering, just us together— _happy_. Come home, Sammy."

Though Dean's voice twists something inside him, awakens an ache, a need deep in his heart, Sam isn't fooled. Anger boils up, a rich, black heat seething through his veins, taking over. It's probably not wise to provoke a crazy demigod, but if Sam can do nothing else he wants to damage her.

"So which one are you?" Sam asks. "Or does it even matter? All you ancient deities— consigned to oblivion. You're all _forgotten_— no worse, _unremembered_ by history, discarded like a piece of trash_. _No longer worthy of even the slightest adoration. What a sorry bag of bones you are. Never to be worshipped—."

"_Infidel!"_ she shrieks, flying at him enraged. "I will rip the beating heart from your chest and be reborn! Mortals will once again quake with fear and pay tribute to me!"

Sam laughs at her. "No, never again. You waited too long. Your world and would be followers have long since expired."

"Pathetic creatures, you humans— with your pitiably poor demon war," she sneers. "You think that will matter in the slightest when I have reclaimed my birthright? All _will_ bow to me in this world and the next."

She grabs Sam by the throat, raising him up off the ground. Giving him a shake she asks, "What do you think demons fear? Surely not you, Sam Winchester— not as you are."

With a shriek she tosses Sam down. Sam is thrown several feet back, landing heavily with a roll towards the edge of the loft. He nearly falls from the dusty planks, but manages to hold on.

Though it's dark, there's just enough light filtering into the barn for Sam to see down over the edge into the animal stalls below. There, he glimpses his brother lying on his back, hands pulled overhead, his face turned away, blood dripping down from his rib cage, from his left side. It's dim, but Sam sees the blood pooled on his chest, the deep, dark stain marking his t-shirt where his heart is— _was_—

The breath goes out of him when he sees Dean lying there. _Oh God_, he thinks. _His heart— did she— she took his heart—_

"Dean!" he shouts, denial on his lips. _"Oh my God—." _From what Sam can see, Dean's heart has been ripped out.

A dam bursts inside of Sam, the barricade of whatever holds him together rupturing in splintered pieces, jagged and torn. Grief floods him. Dean can't have been taken from him early— that was not the deal that was made. Sam is supposed to have time to think, to figure this thing out. But Dean is dead— _Dean is in hell._ Worthlessness— _how could I not know? How could I not feel it? _Now there is no more thought, just emotion rushing through the ragged hole torn in him.

She's smiling, still thinking she has the upper hand, crazed in her thirst for power and rebirth. But she doesn't realize her fatal mistake. She thinks that Dean is Sam's weakness, that he will fall to pieces without him, but what she doesn't know is that his love for his brother strengthens him beyond her comprehension.

A cold, sick feeling spreads wide across his heart, circulating like a drug through his blood, and he dips down into a cold well of power he was always afraid he possessed. Ava's words are fresh in his mind and he's suddenly glad. The want for justice, the need for revenge is such a strong pull that he does not fight it even knowing that he'll embrace his dark side willingly just to kill her.

She suddenly stops smiling, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him, not understanding the change she senses in him. Sam smiles, corner of his mouth quirked up, eyes hard as stone flint.

"Aww, Sammy. Don't be upset," she coos. It's _his_ voice and it _hurts_ so much more to hear that voice twisted through her mouth. Sam is going to crush that voice from her throat.

"Don't you dare call me that," Sam growls. He knows then that he's going to kill her and he'll feel no remorse.

_To be continued…_

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A/N: Don't forget to check out the illustration for this chapter at my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com)

Feedback would be lovely. Thank you :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Warnings: hurt!Dean, powers!Sam, lots o'blood, and a touch of wincest.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "All Hell Breaks Loose" parts 1 and 2.

Summary: Dean is taken as bait in a trap for his brother. Sam battles for what's his and the aftermath will leave him forever changed.

Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R for Wincest, language, horrific imagery

Beta'd by the most wonderful fortitudeisme, who is lovely to work with. Thank you very much, my dear.

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_Heart Eater _

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

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Chapter Three

Stepping away from the loft's edge, Sam straightens to his full height. Outwardly, Sam's actions are calm, calculating. The hot air beads his skin with sweat, but fury sears his insides. Every part of his essence screams and liquefies, erupting within him like a lava flow— his soul feels destroyed.

The rage-fueled pounding in his chest is cruel, thumping _failure, failure_. His own heart beats while Dean's does not— _cannot—_

Ever since Cold Oak, Sam's anger and frustration had deepened, maturing like a fine wine. All swagger and charm, Dean dismissed it, as if his life was unworthy of consideration, as if throwing it away for Sam was exactly what he was born to do. That callousness belittled Sam, who cherished Dean, kept him close like no other in his life.

He and Dean, helplessly entangled and complicated, danced around each other. Sam resigned himself to the sidestep, hoping that before the year was up he'd convince Dean to do something to save himself, to _want_ to be saved. But it's too late now. Sam had consoled himself with the notion of time, but now he doesn't even have that.

Losing Dean is like losing half his heart, impossible to survive. Sam loves Dean, the feeling so big and full Sam thinks he can't take it, and the loss of it— the loss of Dean— rends a gap so wide it is irreparable.

The former goddess takes an uncertain step away from him. The brazen smile she had worn so easily is gone now. Unblinking, Sam tracks her movements like an untamed animal.

"Sam," she says, setting an edge to Dean's voice. "It's over now. Don't let his death have been in vain."

Black anger rises up in Sam, fast and dark, and the intensity shocks him. He moves without meaning to, but once he's going he doesn't stop, barreling towards her recklessly, a powerhouse of wrath.

Once again, he feels her attempts at restriction circling him. Her efforts no longer bind like rope, but gossamer web, and Sam easily breaks free. Slipping the darkness on like one wears a sweater, Sam feels almost comforted by the enigmatic power, a streak of gladness that he might find solace in the revenge this ability will grant him.

She scrabbles back, frantic, unnerved, as if she's the one who is being attacked, and Sam realizes that she's _afraid_ of him.

_She needs my heart, but she's afraid to take it, _Sam thinks. This was the reason for the subterfuge. _She went after Dean first to weaken me. Dean is _dead_ now because of it— because of me—_

Despite having been a goddess, she is too afraid of Sam to go at him directly because, of all the things on this earth, she recognizes that Sam is the only one who can destroy her outright.

A surge of darkness swells inside him and Sam doesn't fight it, lets it overtake him.

Sam doesn't touch her, and yet she sails across the loft through the shadows, slams into the wall and stays there, pinned like a collected butterfly. Sam doesn't know how he makes it happen, only that he's hurting and wants to hurt her too.

He should be frightened of this power— he should be _appalled,_ but he's not thinking about that right now. He's not thinking of anything at the moment because that requires Sam to _process_ what has happened and he can't quite cope with the idea that his brother is dead— _your brother's in hell_. It's a bit too big, too vast and endless for Sam to handle. He failed Dean before he ever really had the chance to try to save him.

"Please," she implores, and now she's begging for her life. In this moment, Sam can make her do anything.

"Bring him back," Sam demands.

She shakes her head. "I can't," she says. "I don't have the power to. Not yet—."

Sam shakes her, throttling the words from her throat. It's a final power play for his heart, but Sam knows that even if he let her claw through his chest and take it, she wouldn't bring Dean back.

"Please," she says again. "He's not— _not_—." She swallows thickly, trying to get a breath past Sam's intangible grip. _"Please,"_ she whispers.

"You think you can _play_ with my heart this way?" Sam hisses. "It's not _yours_ to play with. And—," he pauses, words catching in his tightening throat, "it's not mine to give you."

Incensed, and with the very cause of his anguish under his fingertips, Sam lets the power flow through him. The walls shake, the old boards rattling against each other. Flashes of Dean blink through his mind: running ahead of him, laughing, grin as bright as the sun, calloused hands gentle on the back of his neck, hazel eyes flushed with upset and worry, behind the wheel of the Impala lost in thought, blood-spattered but exhilarated, breathing softly from the next bed, intense focus devoted entirely to him—

Dean envelops Sam, surrounds him entirely, for there is no part of his life that is not measured against his brother. Without him, Sam feels hollowed out and empty, gutted.

A burst of energy courses through him, hot and driving, and the world goes white.

A second later, or maybe it's an eternity, Sam opens his eyes, sees the remnants of the loft quaking above him, the boards splintered and dangling. Flecks of disintegrated wood and hashed bits of hay rain down from overhead. Somehow he's on the ground level, lying on his back, staring up at the roof. The row of animal stalls, where Dean's body cools, is to his right.

_Can't_, Sam thinks. _Can't face it yet._

Sam turns his head and rolls onto his side, dirt beneath his cheek. It feels cold and wet against his skin and Sam realizes his eyes are tearing, silent drops tracking down his face, pooling along the earth.

Dazed, he sits himself up, his ears roaring. He feels strange, like he's mixed Percocet with alcohol and the world wavers around him.

The creature is a few feet away, crumpled in an accumulation of her own blood. On hands and knees, Sam stumbles over to her, crawling over fractured wooden beams and twisted bits of metal, fragments of the destroyed loft floor.

Sam peers over her. Her eyes are open, dimmed, and she lies unmoving. At first Sam thinks she's dead until breathless words leave her lips.

"I used to be a goddess, revered, feared… now _you_ are the feared one." She still has Dean's voice, and though she's no longer using it to get a rise out of him, it does anyway.

He doesn't want to hear it, the defeated tone, the sound of Dean dying, yet he can't turn away, devouring every word because it's his last chance to hear his brother's voice.

"No one will remember me," she whimpers. "Save one." Her dark eyes glitter, locking onto his, and she lifts her chin smugly. "There was always a wicked power lying dormant inside of you, but _I_ unleashed it— Not the legacy I sought, but I will take it."

Black blood leaks from her mouth, and out of her ears. Sam has crushed her without lifting a finger. "You will always remember what I did to you— how I changed you. You will keep me in your memory until the end of your days."

Repulsed, Sam knows she is right. Vengeance did not mollify the deep sorrow crippling him, and he will never forget this goddess of old and how she took what he loved most from him. There's one thing, though, that might soothe his torment over time.

"Give me back his voice," Sam demands.

She smiles, mirthless. "Take it," she says, licking her lips.

Sam leans over her, wrathful and contemptuous, and presses his mouth to hers. He's forceful and unforgiving, thinking only of taking the last remains of his brother from her filthy clutches. There's a moment of heat and discomfort as Dean's voice passes from her to Sam. He's not sure how it happens exactly, only that it's his now. The she-creature stiffens against him, life seizing out of her. Sam pulls back, scrambling away from the body and spits the blood from his mouth.

The barn vibrates, shivering in time with his trembling body.

Feeling sick, Sam wraps his arms around his chest. His heart hurts. A guttural laugh escapes him— _it's Dean's laugh_— and Sam laughs even harder— he's come undone.

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He's being shaken awake, the tremors forceful enough to wake him with a start. _No— Earthquake,_ Dean thinks, wondering if they are common to Texas.

Dust flies down around him. The old building groans, the sound of snapping wood bristles in his ears. Lifting his head from the floor, a tidal wave of agony crashes into him and Dean lets his skull drop back against the dirt with an audible _thwap_. It takes him a moment to remember what has happened, thoughts flittering around in his mind, but the pain pretty much tells a clear tale.

Suddenly he remembers Sam and there's more than just the impending barn collapse to motivate him.

_Get up, Dean,_ he thinks. _Get up, get up!_

Dean realizes that she was holding him down with some sort of power, but that's gone now, and so Dean forces himself to rise to his feet. He tries to think about what it means now that he can move when he couldn't before, but his mind can only focus on one thing at a time right now, and his attention is better spent on keeping himself upright. White specks swirl through his vision like fireflies. At least two of his ribs are broken and he can't pull himself up straight. He's lost an amazing amount of blood— even he can admit that. Dean wraps an arm around his chest and lurches toward the stall door.

The first thing he sees is Sam— _thank God, Sammy!—_ on his knees, hunched over in defeat. Bathed in light from the open door, Sam casts a long silhouette.

The she-creature lies in his shadow, the life wrung out of her, crumpled, _dead_. Black blood pools around her body, nearly obscured by his shape.

_Sammy, _he tries to call, forgetting that his voice is gone. His brother doesn't look up, doesn't know he's standing there. Dirt and flecks of debris roll away from him as if Sam is the epicenter of the storm.

The breath goes from his lungs when he realizes that Sam _is_ the cause of the seismic wave. He has to get to his brother. Dean staggers towards Sam and it's as if he's walking against the polar force of a magnet.

A beam from the rafters shakes loose, clipping Dean's shoulder as it falls to the ground. The glancing blow ripples a shockwave of pain through his injured chest. He sways, but doesn't fall. Splinters flake down from the roof like hail, littering the ground with wood flecks. The barn is coming down. Though decrepit and rotted, its collapse would surely crush them.

Dean doesn't know what has happened, only that his brother is distraught. He tries not to think about what shaking earth and telekinetic repulsion means for Sam. The only thought he allows himself is, _Gotta get to Sam_. It breaks his heart to see his brother this distressed.

Not having a voice is frustrating as hell. He's never wanted to talk so badly in his life. _Stop it, Sam,_ he thinks. _Let me in._

But Sam doesn't see him. Dean fights the flow, no easy feat in his condition, but the struggle is trivial when set against his brother's pain. He falls to his knees and finds it easier to pull his way along the ground.

_I'm coming, Sammy,_ Dean thinks. _Hold onto yourself._

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The whole barn is shaking, the weathered boards trembling in their places. The paths of light vibrate, too, as if quaking with fear all around him. But Sam doesn't notice this. He's too grief-ravaged. There's a hole torn in him, and he's hemorrhaging vital parts of selfand sin, but Sam is unable to stop the darkness from pouring out even if he wanted to.

_Dean_. Sam can't bring himself to face his brother's body—

But then Dean is stumbling towards him. Sam's vision eclipses and suddenly hands slide over his shoulders, travel down his arms and back up, fitting on either side of his face, forcibly turning him away.

Sam doesn't understand. Dean's heart is gone, ripped from his chest, how can he be standing before him now? But Sam looks into his eyes and knows it's his brother— _my Dean._

Dean is insistent, worried, his eyes always a darker, more intense shade when he worries. Sam thinks fleetingly how Dean's eyes have a color just for him. For the moment, Sam ignores the question on Dean's face and finds an answer of his own. Sam palms Dean's cheek, lets his hand fall and slide gently over Dean's chest, fingers finding the beat beneath blood soaked shirt and skin. _Alive, very much alive._

_Dean_, Sam realizes and slowly his dark focus is entirely on his brother.

Dean's more than a little worried now, but still, Sam can't do anything except feel the sweet thrill of relief knowing that there's time.

He looks frightened, Sam muses and Dean's touching him, hands insistent. He can't talk; his voice is still missing. Sam sags a little, twenty-four or not, Dean is still his safe haven. _God, Dean— Dean. _

Sam takes Dean's face between his large hands, brushing his cheeks with his thumbs. "You okay?" Sam asks, and its Dean's gritty voice that comes out. Dean pulls back, startled, but Sam's got him in his grip now. It's a good thing too because the blood loss makes him sway and lose balance.

Sam has him, pulling Dean in close before he can fall, easing him down. Sam buries his face in his shoulder, presses hot tears into his shirt. _I can't take it,_ Sam thinks. _God, I love you._

Dean is still looking at Sam with wide, concerned eyes. Sam can't help it, puts his hand over the bloodstain on Dean's chest again— his heart beats now, but in less than a year, it won't.

"I thought you were dead," Sam whispers, and again it's in Dean's voice. It's bizarre to hear it come out of his mouth. Dean touches his face, then brushes his fingers over the bloody claw marks on Sam's chest, asking without words.

Sam clears his throat, and with a concentrated effort he forces his own voice back up. "I'm okay," Sam says. Now that Dean is in Sam's grasp, the barn has conspicuously stopped shaking and the flow of darkness has ebbed.

Sam's not convinced he is entirely okay. He's pretty sure he just killed something without needing a weapon, but Dean's the one bleeding all over the place. _He still has his heart, _Sam thinks._ And so I still have mine._

Dean takes a fistful of Sam's shirt, frustrated by his lack of voice. He's not buying it. He knows something's happened here in this barn, something that has changed Sam.

Sam sees him wince at the effort. _Broken ribs,_ Sam thinks. _Maybe a punctured lung._ They need to get out of here. First things first, though— Dean needs his voice back. It's a warm presence inside of him that Sam feels strangely in command of.

Smiling, Sam knows just how to return it, knows that his brother is going to have a fit.

"Dean, your voice," Sam says softly, pausing until Dean's hazel eyes are boring into his own. "I need to give your voice back the way that she took it."

Dean leans back from him, shaking his head with a _you gotta be kidding me_ look. Hurt and beyond worried, Dean is on the cusp of a major freak-out.

Sam runs his hands over Dean's scalp, fingers carding through the short hair, and down around his face, cupping his jaw between two large palms. "Let me," Sam says. "Just let me."

His brother holds his gaze for a moment before nodding his head, accepting.

Sam leans close, forehead against Dean's. He waits there. Sam feels his breath soft against his cheek, then noses closer, hovering just— Sam's mouth rolls gently over Dean's, kissing him hesitantly at first. As he works his jaw open, tasting blood in his mouth, is sure now his lungs have been punctured, Sam deepens the kiss. A surge of warmth, momentary pain, but Sam doesn't stop kissing him, even though he knows his voice has been returned.

_I've got to save you_, Sam thinks, and it's beyond strange to be kissing his brother while realizing there's no life without him. They break to breathe, this close Sam hears the wheeze. It's sinful, but a part of Sam yearns for the contact, the sweet taste of Dean's mouth against his own, a display of love too long denied him.

They stay together, foreheads touching, sharing the same breath, when Sam is struck with such a strong notion— a terrible, wonderful idea— that he starts laughing, low and throaty, finds he can't stop, knows he sounds insane. Maybe he is.

"Sam?" Dean says, testing his voice.

Sam leans in, laughs into another forceful kiss before breaking away, helping Dean to his feet.

Sam knows how to save Dean now, how to break the deal. He slings an arm around Dean's waist, fingers fitting just above his hip, curling beneath his shirt to touch his warm skin. They both struggle to stand, but with Dean's body flush against his side, Sam finds strength.

_What's more powerful than a demon?_ He muses as they stumble towards the open doorway. _A God._ Thinking— _knowing_— somehow he'll have control over one, just like he did today.

_Fin _

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A/N: I hoped you liked it! This fic was a little bit of a stretch for me, but I really enjoyed writing it. Please don't forget to check out the artwork.

At the time of this writing, I have thoughts on expanding this story!verse with a companion piece.

Thanks everybody! :)


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